Chapter IX

_Sneer._--True; but I think you manage ill: for there certainly
appears no reason why Mr. Walter should be so communicative.

_Puff._--For, egad now, that is one of the most ungrateful
observations I ever heard;--for the less inducement he has to tell
all this, the more I think you ought to be obliged to him; for I am
sure you'd know nothing of the matter without it.

_Dangle._--That's very true, upon my word.

THE CRITIC.

Augustus rose next morning at the first dawn of light; and, anxious to avoid seeing Selina, whilst agitated by the unhappy feelings that had now taken possession of his mind, left the hall before any of the family were up, and in a short note, excused the abruptness of his departure, by informing Sir Henry, that he had the evening before received at the village a letter, to inform him that his Oxford friends had set out on their long promised excursion to the lakes.

Selina, though totally unconscious of the real cause of his absence, felt it with unusual acuteness, which Mrs. Galton remarked with regret, and for some time vainly endeavoured to turn her thoughts into their usual channel. At length they were in some degree diverted by the arrival of a letter from Lady Eltondale to Sir Henry, enclosing one from Frederick Elton to his father; for Sir Henry's noble sister was fully aware, that it was adviseable to remind him, from time to time, of the existence of this young man, that such reminiscence might refresh his memory as to his promise respecting him.

Mr. Elton had been three years abroad, during which time he had kept up a constant though not very confidential correspondence with his father; for, dreading Lady Eltondale's satire, and knowing she was in the habit of reading all his letters, he pictured to himself her smile of contempt, or shrug of pity, at what she would term his romance, with a repugnance he could not summon resolution to encounter: so that, though his colloquial intercourse with his father was that of the most perfect confidence, his written communications might have been posted on a gateway, without the smallest detriment to his prospects in life. But, as he thus felt himself debarred of the happiness of expressing, without reserve, to his first and best friend, all his feelings and wishes, he endeavoured to console himself for this deprivation, by a most undisguised correspondence with a Mr. Sedley, with whom he had formed a friendship during their academical course in the university of Cambridge, where they had both been honourably distinguished.

About twelve months before Lady Eltondale's visit to Deane Hall, Mr. Sedley had received the first of the following letters, and seven months after its arrival the two latter, though of different dates, reached him on the same day: of course they did not meet the eye of the viscountess, so that she remained ignorant of their contents; but even had she known them entirely, no consideration for Frederick's _happiness_ would for an instant have caused her to waver in her plan for promoting his _prosperity_, as on the fulfilment of her long meditated scheme for this purpose depended the possibility of her future continuance in the London world.

MR. ELTON, TO CHARLES SEDLEY, ESQ.

Catania, January 9. ----

If you have received the various letters I have written to you, my
dear Sedley, since I left England, you are perfectly _au fait_ of
all my rambles; and of my perils, and "hair-breadth 'scapes" by
sea and by land, beginning with a shipwreck on the island of
Rhodes, and ending with the dangers I encountered in paying my
compliments to the Dey of Algiers: if not I must refer you to my
note book, as a twice told tale is still more tedious to the
relater than to the hearer. You must not be incredulous, if said
manuscript should contain many wonderful adventures; but I have met
with something more rare, more "passing strange," than all the
marvels it describes: a woman I _can_ love! nay, that, for my very
soul, I could not help loving if I would; and, to say truth, at
present I do not wish to make the experiment.

You see, Sedley, you were in the main no bad prophet. When we were
together, I forswore all womankind in the way of matrimony, because
I was disgusted with the manoeuvres of title-hunting mamas, and
the _agaceries_ of their varnished daughters, who have little
distinction but name, and nothing to guide a selection in the mass
of resemblance--nothing to mark their identity--except a scruple,
more or less, of folly or coquetry! Now don't plume yourself too
much on your penetration; you were not altogether right, it was not
the Gallic "_Erycina ridens, quam Jocus circumvolat et Cupido_[7],"
who captivated me.--Man seeks in man his fellow, but in woman his
contrary; and I am too volatile to be touched by a creature as
thoughtless as myself. I should not say as _thoughtless_, but as
_gay_; for their heads are continually filled with schemes to
excite admiration, or ensure conquest: besides, the Parisian belle
is only the more spirited original, of which our own girl of
fashion is the elegant but insipid translation. Having told you
those I do _not_ like, it is time to give you a faint, a very
faint, idea of her I _do_ admire.--But let me go on regularly, and
tell you first how I happened to meet with her.

[Footnote 7: Laughing Venus, encircled by Love and Joy.]

At Palermo there is a very numerous, if not good society, made up
of shreds and patches of the staple manufacture of all nations, but
principally of the English produce. You know, it is my practice to
profit, when abroad, by that of whatever country I may happen to be
in, as our own is to be had better and at a cheaper rate at home.
Impressed with this idea, I procured some introductions to the
principal nobility of this enchanting place, where, I understood,
there was a delightful native society, and the gentlemanly
amusements of drinking and gambling (the only ones to be found at
Palermo and Messina) were nearly superseded by those afforded by
music, dancing, and literary conversation. I have not been
disappointed; and if you should ever come to Sicily, I advise you
to take up your abode here, and I will introduce you to all my
acquaintance, with _one_ exception. About four months ago, I found
myself, one evening, at the Marchese Di Rosalba's, listening to
some exquisite music: I was as melancholy as a poet in love, for "I
am never merry when I hear sweet music;" when my eyes happened to
rest on a lady, whose image will never leave my mind.

From the looks of the gentleman who accompanied her, I soon
discovered that the fair creature, who rested on his arm, was his
daughter. In his face was a strangely mingled expression of
habitual care, and present pleasure; his forehead was furrowed in a
thousand wrinkles, and the feverish glare of his eye spoke a mind
ill at ease: but when he turned to his daughter, to point out to
her notice, in the tacit language of the eye, any beautiful passage
in the music, he looked like a saint raised from his penance by a
vision of celestial nature. Her countenance formed the most perfect
contrast to his; it was the abode of peace, which seemed to repose
in her eye; her whole outline of face and form was so perfect, that
a sculptor might have taken her as a model for the statue that
Pygmalion worshipped; and, like him, I longed to see the beauteous
image waken to incipient thought--I was not long ungratified--its
apparent absence was only the effect of the music, which, to use
her own expression "_fait tout rÍver et ne rien penser_." When she
joined in conversation her ever varying countenance resembled a
mirror, which transmits to our eye every passing image, (though the
polished surface is itself unmasked by any), and, like it, owing
its animation to the strong reflecting power gained from within. I
could not decide then, and I cannot tell you even now, whether I
most admire the angelic placidity of her countenance when silent,
or its luminous brilliancy, when her ideas and feelings are called
forth in interesting conversation. At such moments the brightness
of her soul is reflected in her eyes, and the lambent flame, which
then plays in them, seems, like the summer's lightning, to open a
Heaven to our view.

You will easily suppose I lost no time in introducing myself to her
notice: she received my attentions in the most unembarrassed
manner--not courting--not repulsing them, but seeming to consider
them as justly due to her sex, and her rank in society. These
attentions I have not ceased to pay at every possible opportunity
since that delightful evening, and my admiration grows stronger
every day. I find her conversation truly charming; and I devoutly
believe it would be so were she externally the reverse of what she
is; for, in speaking, "she makes one forget every thing--even her
own beauty." She has not found out, that her extensive knowledge is
any thing to be ashamed of. But, poor thing! a short residence in
England would teach her that! She neither conceals nor displays
her acquirements. The stream of thought, in _her_ mind, flows, not
like the little mountain torrent, swelled by accidental rains,
exceeding every bound, and defacing the fair soil it should adorn;
but, like the fertilizing river,

"Though deep yet clear, though gentle yet not dull,
Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full."

In the beginning of our acquaintance we conversed in Italian, but
as I was not very fluent, she politely adopted the French language
as the circulating medium of our commerce, and I was half sorry for
it; for besides the beauty of Italian in her mouth, her
good-natured smile, when I eked out my scanty stock with a word or
two of Latin, pleased me better than all the rest, it was so
encouragingly kind, so _untutored_!

I soon found out she had a quick sense of the ridiculous, but only
because sharp-sighted people cannot go through the world with their
eyes shut. She forbears, from the benevolence of her heart, to use
the powers of ridicule her penetration furnishes her with; and I
admire her the more for having at command an arsenal of wit, with
so many polished weapons unused. We are always attached to the
generous enemy, who can strike, but spares!

I have been so delighted with the employment of defining to myself,
for the first time, my ideas of the object of my admiration, that
(pardon me, my dear Sedley) I quite forgot they were to be read by
another; and, perhaps, should have gone on till to-morrow, had not
my servant, coming to inquire if my letters were ready to be
conveyed to the ship which is to carry them to England, roused me
from my soliloquy, (if you will permit me to extend this expression
to writing).

I would not display the amulet, which guards my heart by its potent
charm, to any eye but yours; but I cannot, even in this instance,
depart from my usual habit of confidence in you; therefore, here
goes my unread rhapsody.

Yours, dear Sedley, ever truly,

FREDERICK ELTON.

* * * * *

TO CHARLES SEDLEY, ESQUIRE.

Catania, March 5, ----

My dear Sedley,

About two months ago I sent you my confession, which you have no
doubt received and answered, ere this. It was no sooner gone than I
repented I had sent it, thinking it would have been wiser to
endeavour to restrain my perhaps unrequited passion, than to run
the risk of confirming it, by imparting it to another. This was
only the escort of a long train of reflections, which ended in a
resolution to leave Catania immediately; and in order to divert my
mind from the train of thought that had seized it, I resolved to
visit Mount Etna, in company with a party of Savans, assembled for
that purpose at this place. We had all the _de quoi_ for a most
amusing excursion, men of real science and literature, and still
more entertaining pretenders to both; amongst the latter I held a
distinguished rank, for in my zeal to acquire the "hardest
science," _ere_ "taught a lover yet," I mistook one mineral for
another, and miscalled every plant I met; indeed, I might give you
a long list of similar blunders, that raised many a learned
shoulder and eye-brow to the altitude of contemptuous surprise!

After the descent from the mountain, I insensibly separated myself
from all the party, whose weak senses I had so much astonished; and
wandering about the exquisite scenery at the base of Etna, I was
more than ever possessed by feelings I had endeavoured to stifle;

Pour chasser de sa souvenance
L'objet qui plait,
On se donne tant de souffrance,
Pour si peu d'effet!
Une si douce fantaisie,
Toujours revient,
Et en songeant qu'on doit l'oublier,
On s'en souvient[8].

[Footnote 8:

From mem'ry's length'ning chain to part
The object that we love,
How vain the pang that rends the heart,
What fruitless grief we prove!
The dear idea, cherish'd yet,
Returns still o'er and o'er,
And thinking that we should forget,
Impresses it the more.
]

So to make a long story short, here I am again at Catania, for the
purpose of making myself quite sure, that Adelina is as charming as
my imagination has depicted her. I really don't think she is, for I
certainly did not love her half so much when I was with her as I
do now; perhaps my _mind_ was so much amused by her conversation,
that little room was left for the expansion of the _feelings_; but
they are unrestrained in absence, and its melancholy regrets are, I
verily believe, more powerful than the most potent present charm.
If Adelina is the superior character I take her for, I see no one
good reason why she should not be my wife: I have, on considering
the matter more maturely, put to flight the phantoms I had raised
previous to my departure from this place.

My father, when twice my age, (with therefore half the excuse)
married for love, therefore why should not I?

I am sure he will give me no opposition, for he has always been a
most indulgent parent, and on a point where my happiness is so much
concerned, I feel convinced my wishes would be his. Whenever he
has, on points of minor importance, wavered in the least, my
charming step-dame has always used her influence, to decide him in
my favour, therefore I am certain of her support. Indeed what can
my father object to in Adelina? He cannot surely want fortune for
me? I do not know whether Adelina is or is not possessed of this
root of all evil, but if she is not, it is the only want she can
possibly have.

But all this is for an after-thought, the preamble must be to gain
Adelina's consent: she has shown me no particular preference as
yet, but I am determined to think she will not withhold it; _Qui
timidË rogat docet negare_[9], and the conviction of the success of
our plans so often ensures it!

[Footnote 9: Who timidly asks teaches to deny.]

With these hopes I am now as happy, as I was miserable a short time
ago. What fools we are to throw away the bliss we might enjoy, at
the suggestions of that preposterous prudence, that leads us to
seek for flaws in the short leases of happiness that are granted to
us, and which, after all, when they expire are renewable at
pleasure, if we would but pay the necessary fine, by sacrificing
our proud splenetic discontents. Hypochondriac spirits may say as
they like; but I will maintain, that to those who make the best of
it, this is a very delightful world!

The Marchese di Rosalba has promised to take me to-morrow to the
Villa Marinella, where Adelina always goes with her father in the
beginning of spring. I shall establish my head quarters within two
or three miles of it at Aci reale, through which flows the river
immortalized by the loves of Acis and Galatea; and if my Galatea
should prove equally kind, no mental or corporeal giant shall
destroy our happiness.

Ever yours, dear Sedley,

FREDERICK ELTON.